


Counter Reacts

by calabash



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams vs. Reality, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, implied grimmons, nothing explicit tho, who knows what's going on? i sure as fuck don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calabash/pseuds/calabash
Summary: Grif doesn't need friends. Not at all. He's certainly not lonely, and he is most definitely not spiraling or anything. The only thing he really needs is a good night's sleep.





	1. Every Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I physically cannot stop writing about Grif. I love that man more than life itself.
> 
> Dreams are really fascinating to me, and that goes double for the ones that stick with you even after you wake up. Sometimes, dreams can tell you things you should've already known, or DID know, but pretended not to know. Especially if you're an emotionally repressed soldier who loves the color orange and refuses to be nice to your friends for once.
> 
> Takes place during the stretch of time where Grif was alone on Iris.

Grif didn't miss the others.

He'd been doing his best to put them out of his mind, but there wasn't much for him to do once the sun was down, now that their bases were gone and all light sources with it. Instead, he spent his nights staring up at the distant stars on the barren planet that was, now, all his, and that kind of free time made a man pensive. He had yet to start reconstructing any kind of shelter, so every night began and ended that way, with him laid out on the ground. He knew that, down the road, he'd regret not building a hovel of some sort to stay in, but ever since his friends left, chasing after Church for what felt like the hundredth time, he was finding himself at a loss for reasons to give a shit.

Actually, they weren't even his friends. He needed to get that word out of his lexicon. Grif didn't have friends. Friends were people you enjoyed the company of. What Grif had were forced acquaintances that he had to spend every minute of every day with, for one shitty reason or another, and he had never liked any of them. Ever. No matter what anyone said.

He definitely hated Church, in spite of the fact that he had traveled across space to save him time and time again. And he hated Tucker more, regardless of the many nights he had spent hanging out with him, drinking lukewarm beers and talking about everything. Even Caboose wasn't safe from Grif's aggressive apathy; he certainly was never swayed by Caboose's friendly, genuine ways that were borne of real, honest-to-goodness compassion. They were all horrible, each one worst than the last.

And it went without saying that this view applied doubly to the Reds, regardless of how many years he'd spent with them. He'd certainly never spent weeks on end looking forward to Donut's wine and cheese hours, and the small moments where Sarge seemed to actually respect him didn't still ring in his mind from time to time, giving him a boost of self-confidence. Most of all, though, he wanted it to be known that he had _never_ liked Simmons, the man he'd spent every moment with since Basic, the only constant he'd ever had in his life. He definitely didn't sit up at night, wondering what he was up to, if he was okay, how he was coping with their only long term separation since they'd first met. He wasn't thinking about any of that. Because he didn't care about any of them.

No, Grif was totally fine living on his own. He was used to being a cool loner, a maverick, if you will – fending for himself was nothing new, and the fact that he was doing it alone just made things easier. He had been on his own for a few weeks, and it was still going great. He wasn't becoming unhinged at all. He was much better off like this. A free agent, just him against the elements, untethered, with no companions. By himself. Alone. Forever.

“God, I wish I had a beer,” he said out loud to no one. It was fruitless, as it always was.

Lately, everything was feeling a little bit futile. He supposed that he'd been on the road for so long, doing actual work and generally going against his hedonistic nature, that he'd partially forgotten how to relax. Even though all there was left to do during the night was sleep, he almost didn't want to anymore. God, that was a cursed thing to say, but it was true. Still, he really had no choice. With a heavy sigh, he rolled into the most comfortable position he could manage on the cold, rocky ground, and shut his eyes, his weariness helping him fall quickly into a deep sleep.

Grif usually didn't dream. If he did, he always forgot them right away, or only remembered small snippets. He knew that others often had strange experiences in their dreams; dreams that were hyperrealistic, or dreams that seemed to predict the future. But he wasn't one of these people, never having had any dream that was particularly noteworthy. So it was a bit odd, naturally, when he came to in the harsh, hazy daytime sun that could only have belonged to Blood Gulch, spotted the old Blue base far off in the distance, shaded by the overhanging cliffs, and realized with a start that he was dreaming.

He had never been lucid in a dream before. It was a frightening, yet enrapturing feeling – like swimming in the deepest parts of the clear, cool ocean, sluggish and fluid all at once. Every move he made was like wading through honey, and when he leaned down to pick up a big clump of the dry, desert earth, crumbling it between his fingers, the feeling was faint, a feather-light touch on the surface of his skin. Thinking was difficult, his thoughts moving just as slow as his body, but one coherent goal pushed its way to the surface of his mind, the only thing he was certain of. He needed to find the others.

He turned and faced Red base, which he was stood directly in front of, and began to press forward, feeling dizzy. He staggered inside carefully, pausing in the opening of the base which led to the recreational room and the half-kitchen, which were both empty. Grif was a little shocked by the accuracy of his memory; he wasn't sure how others' dreams functioned, but as far as he could remember, his dreams were never this aligned with reality, often having glaring flaws or falsehoods that his dream-self, somehow, never noticed.

But the lucidity granted to him by this particular dream gave him a tenuous bridge into what he knew to be real, and he could tell that the base looked essentially identical to how he remembered it, even down to the deep red wine stain on the couch from a wine and cheese hour that had gotten a little out of hand. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, and he couldn't help but let a small smile curl his lips as he recalled the clumsy way Simmons had upturned Donut's ill-gotten wine bottle during a heated debate about _Star Wars_ , forever branding their poor abused sofa.

He shook his head slightly to break his own stupor. He was supposed to be looking for the others, not getting sucked up in stupid memories. The rec room was the usual spot to find anyone, if they weren't outside, which meant they had to be in their rooms. Slowly, he continued trudging toward the hallway where all of their quarters were. Donut's room was the first one, with an elegant floral design that Donut had done himself painted onto the door. Grif was always kind of jealous of it, if he was being honest, but he wasn't about to ask Donut to do one for him. Like hell he'd ever ask someone for a favor.

“Donut?” Grif called. No response.

He tried the door and, finding that it wasn't locked, cautiously stepped inside. Unsurprisingly to Grif, no one was there. The room looked just as clean and perfect as it always did, with not a single drape out of place. He paused, glancing around the room. Even with all the times he had been in here, he'd never taken the time to really look at it. Donut had the place pretty well furnished, all things considered – the bed was neatly made, with exactly four soft pillows stacked on top of one another and a plush-looking fuchsia comforter underneath them. Grif let out an almost amused sigh as his gaze fell on the wall hangings; they were all similar, either a poster for some disco singer or a piece of abstract art, but one thing stood out against the rest.

Hanging up against the back wall, singled out in such a way that it drew the eye instantly, was a poster of the cast of _Star Trek: Voyager_ , which Grif had convinced Donut to watch with him one drunken night. He had loved it, and they had stayed up to an unreasonable hour, laughing uproariously at everything and commenting approvingly on Seven of Nine's many questionable catsuits. The poster was a gift from Grif, chosen from his own extensive collection, and while Grif had thought Donut was exaggerating about treasuring the present, he clearly hadn't been. They were never truly close, but even so, Grif couldn't help but recall Donut's genuine interest in his well-being throughout the years, how he'd often gone out of his way to convince Grif to talk about his feelings. (Which rarely worked.)

But now wasn't the time to lie to himself and act like his teammates – former teammates, now – actually liked him. There was a part of him that had decided, in full certainty, that finding the others was the only way to get out of his increasingly weird lucid dream. Drifting down the hall, he made his way to Sarge's room and, without even bothering to call out, threw the door open.

Where Grif could muster up a small bit of affectionate nostalgia for Donut's room, there was no such feeling for Sarge's. It, too, looked just as Grif remembered it; disorganized and cluttered, with robot parts and tools strewn everywhere. Sarge himself was missing, of course, as was Lopez, who powered down in Sarge's room; the only remnant of his presence was his old, overly abused voice box, abandoned on the floor. Grif had gone to great lengths to never enter Sarge's room, and looking at it, it was clearly the right decision; Sarge's room was barren and plain, following military protocol down to the letter, with the exception of the mechanical parts which overtook the room.

Letting his gaze travel across the space, his eyes fell on a massive blood stain in the back corner, and he frowned. That was the place where Sarge had saved his life when he was crushed by the Blues' tank, body tattered so badly that there was barely anything of him left. He had been knocked unconscious on impact, so he remembered almost none of it, but Donut had told him the way Sarge had rushed him into his bedroom after the injury and worked at a frantic pace to save him; they had used all manner of materials to put him back together, rebuilding his body with errant pieces of scrap metal and all the organic parts that Simmons had graciously given up for him. Even though Sarge hated him, he had gone out of his way to keep him alive, and his teammates had done everything in their power to keep him together. Simmons especially.

Speaking of Simmons. There was one more room he still hadn't checked.

Grif knew this was a dream, so he must have had some form of control over what was happening, surely. He would have been glad to see anyone here, literally any person at all, but there was only one person he genuinely _wanted_ to see. He approached the room, his hand hovering over the door, and said aloud, “Simmons is in there. I'm gonna see him once I open this door.”

Hesitantly, he pushed the door open, peeking around the corner as it slowly revealed the room, and a sigh of disappointment escaped him. Of course, just like all the others, it was empty. Grif supposed he couldn't be surprised; he'd never had control over anything, not even his own life, so why should his dreams be any different?

Still, Grif definitely needed to see this room again. He and Simmons had spent years spending time in his room together, talking, watching movies, playing games, and, primarily, doing nothing at all. Regardless of what they were doing, all that had ever mattered was that it was always the two of them in the same space, enjoying each other's company as best they could. Simmons's room now was just as pristine as he had always kept it; the bed was always made, every surface in the room glistening with cleanliness, and, much like Simmons, he followed protocol to an unreasonable degree. The walls, floors, and all else were spotless and bare, with no disallowed personal effects in sight. Not in _sight_ , anyway.

He approached the desk and opened the second drawer on it. It seemed to be full of just writing supplies, but Grif knew better. Reaching into the back, his fingers brushed against a folded up piece of paper. Withdrawing it from the desk, he opened it up, grinning to himself as it revealed a poster of the movie _The Fifth Element_ , ruined by a smattering of poorly illustrated dicks and other crude doodles over the faces of the main cast, all drawn in orange marker, with the words “To My Biggest Fan: Love, Grif” signed at the bottom. Grif had drunkenly drawn it for Simmons, and though the scandalized man had sworn he would burn it, Grif always knew he'd kept it.

Over the years, Grif had learned that Simmons kept everything he gave him in hidden places throughout his room, even things that were inconsequential. He knew if he looked in every nook and cranny of the room, he'd find some hidden trinket in every spot, some doodle Grif had made or some mangled poster he had given to Simmons, silly things that he treasured even when they had no use. No matter how hard he tried to protest, it was obvious that Simmons valued Grif's companionship, to the point that even Grif didn't understand it. He hung on his every word, even when they were arguing. He cared what Grif had to say. As the thought came unbidden, Grif's grin faltered, and he replaced the vandalized poster in its drawer and closed it, backing out of the room.

He sighed again as he shut the door behind him, leaning heavily against it. The place was completely deserted. He should've known it'd be like this; he never got anything he wanted, even in his dreams. He supposed he could check Blue base too, but that felt like a waste of time that would only serve to depress him more. If anyone was here, he would have come across them by now, regardless of team divisions. He would have to figure out how to wake up from this utterly terrible dream soon. But, at least, he could check out his own room. He hadn't been back in his Blood Gulch room in almost a decade, and it would be nice to revisit the only place in that godforsaken canyon he actually liked being in.

He pushed off of Simmons's door and approached his own, smirking as he saw the hastily written note taped to his door which read “FUCK OFF SIMMONS.” Not that it had ever stopped him, of course. He nudged at the door to push it open, but, oddly, it seemed to be jammed. His brow furrowed in confusion; his door was the only one that didn't lock, because Sarge had destroyed the lock on purpose, and Grif had never bothered to get anyone to fix it or attempt it himself. There was no reason why it shouldn't be opening. He knew this was a dream and all, but that had been a major point of contention during his stay in Blood Gulch. There was no way he would've forgotten about that, subconsciously or not.

Trying the door again, he pushed on it harder, finding that it had a little give to it if he put enough of his weight in. He backed up from the door, taking a deep breath, and charged into it, breaking it off its hinge and bursting into the room. The force of impact and his dizziness caused him to fall hard onto the floor, landing roughly on his shoulder. He groaned out in pain as he laid there, taking a moment to get his bearings.

“Jesus fuck, dude, you could've just knocked.”

He gasped at the sound of the foreign voice and quickly flipped over, looking up to see who had spoken. A man was sitting on his bed, his helmet removed to reveal curly brown hair, deep brown eyes, messy stubble, and a puzzled, yet stern gaze. The rest of his body was armored, in a familiar color that he hadn't seen in many years. Cobalt blue.

Church.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I can't stop imagining Grif as this giant loser who is obsessed with any and all sci-fi movies, especially the terrible ones. He definitely watched MST3K a little too much growing up. That's why almost every poster in his room (and the ones he gave to Donut and Simmons) were also sci-fi. But I guarantee he never shuts up about Star Trek. We get it, Grif. You think Riker is hot. Tone it down a little.
> 
> Chapters will be released on a semi-weekly basis. Thanks for reading!


	2. Equal And Opposite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not nearly enough love for the unlikely friend pairing that is Grif and Church. So I had to take matters into my own hands.
> 
> I always picture Church as being slightly older than Grif, so most of their dynamic just feels like an older brother trying his best to help his annoying younger brother to me. And, much like any older brother, he does a piss poor job of it. But it always works out in the end.

“Church?” Grif breathed out incredulously, rising slowly from his place on the floor. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too, dickhead,” Church fired back, but a grin curled his lips.

“Church, seriously,” Grif blurted, desperation leaking into his voice. “What the hell's going on? Why are you in my room?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. I didn't ask to be here. I just am.”

Grif exhaled heavily, sinking onto the bed. “Oh my god, this is so fucked,” he complained. “Of all the people that could've been in this dream,  _you're_ the asshole I find? It's your fault I'm in this shit to begin with!”

“Oh, hell no, I'm not taking the fall just because you're being an idiot,” Church retorted. “You're the one that didn't want to go looking for me. No one told you to be a selfish dick.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , Blue,” Grif shot back. “Look, I'm sick of almost dying all the fucking time for you. _All_ of you. Tucker literally tried to crush me to death with your tank the first time we all met, for fuck's sake.”

Church barked out a hearty laugh, as if Grif had told a joke. “Yeah, that was pretty funny,” he said, wiping at a tear.

“Yeah, so funny that my stitches ache when it rains,” Grif muttered. “Besides, it's not like any of them ever gave a shit about me anyway. They're just so used to me doing whatever they want that they got all pissy when I didn't want to be your human shield for the millionth time. It's got nothing to do with me.”

Church eyed Grif levelly. “Doesn't it?”

Grif scrunched his face in confusion. “Obviously not,” he responded plainly. “What else would it be about? It's you, dude.” He stared hard at his hands, trying to keep the bite out of his voice. “It's always been you.”

A small snicker left Church's lips, causing Grif to look up at him. “That's doing wonders for my ego, I gotta admit,” he said. “Still, you know that's bullshit."

"How? It's the truth," Grif asserted. "The only thing they actually care about is you."

Church rolled his eyes. "Dude, if you really didn't matter to them, they wouldn't have bitched so much about you staying behind," he posited. "Try thinking about shit for more than two seconds next time." 

Grif scowled, biting the inside of his lip nervously. "Whatever, man," he said ambivalently. “Anyway, stop changing the subject. Where _is_ everyone?”

“Fuck if I know, dude, it's your dream,” Church replied unhelpfully. “Maybe your brain's trying to tell you something.”

Grif let out an unkind laugh. “Yeah, that I shouldn't go to bed without getting blackout drunk first.”

“Or maybe that, since they're not here, you need to cut the shit and _go find them_ ,” he countered. “It's not that fucking hard to figure out.”

“Oh, my god, even dream-you only cares about himself,” Grif groaned out, head in his hands. “I'm the one stuck in this weird ass dream, and you're still only worried about how _I_ can help _you_. Guess I knew you pretty well after all.”

“Not as well as you think,” Church stated cryptically. “And anyway, for once, this isn't about me. You know they're gonna get their asses kicked without you.”

Grif scoffed. “Spare me the lecture, dude. I don't even want to fucking be here. I just want to wake up.”

“Oh, please,” Church jeered. “You're such a fucking liar. You probably miss this piece of shit canyon more than you miss home.”

Grif made a disgusted sound and turned away from Church, opening an eye hesitantly to glance at the room. He would never admit it to another human being, much less Church's AI-dream-self, but part of him really did miss Blood Gulch. He knew, of course, that it had been a shitty couple years living there, and their days had been full of mind-numbing boredom that he wouldn't have wished on his mortal enemy (although, in that moment, Church seemed like an ideal candidate).

But things were so simple, and quiet, and _easy_. He could count on one hand the times he'd been in genuine danger there, and in opposition to his more recent, near-constant battles with death, that seemed like a fucking cakewalk. He knew nostalgia had him reminiscing a little too fondly on the box canyon they'd been left to die in, but compared to what he was going through at that moment, anything seemed like an improvement.

Besides, he thought as he glanced around his room, the rooms at Blood Gulch really hadn't been all that bad. Compared to now, when he was laid out in a random rocky field, praying that some wild beast wouldn't stumble across his unconscious body and choose him for a midnight snack, his old room was a five star hotel. It was a disgusting mess, as it had always been, with miscellaneous food wrappers and clothes covering every surface in the room, the bedclothes strewn all over the floor, and the wall covered haphazardly in posters of his favorite shows and movies – _The New Generation, Alien, Xena, The Thing, Tremors._ He had lost all of those posters after they were transferred out of Blood Gulch, another reason to miss it. Those were the only decent memories of home that he had been able to bring along for the horrible, horrible ride.

He chuckled softly as he spotted a paper note, stuck to the poster of _The Thing_ , that Grif had knowingly left in its place for several years. It was a message from Simmons after they had first settled into Blood Gulch, reprimanding him for the state of his room, and threatening him with loss of movie privileges if he didn't shape up. He never followed through, of course. His threats never panned out.

Grif had taped it to that particular poster because _The Thing_ was a favorite of both his and Simmons. Many a night was spent with him in the rec room, rewatching it for the billionth time, commenting on things they'd missed before, laughing too loud at parts that shouldn't have been funny, falling asleep on his shoulder just before the climax, without fail–

“Dude, I can hear everything you're thinking right now. Ease up on the mush.”

Church's sudden comment shook Grif from his nostalgic trip, and he looked over at the man to see his smug expression and his quirked eyebrow. Grif groaned. “God, why the fuck are you still here?” he griped. “Can't you just go harass someone else's dreams? Go bother Caboose or Tucker or something. They're the ones who want to see you.”

Church's self-satisfied grin changed, mutating into little more than a regretful grimace, and he glanced away from Grif. “I would if I could,” he stated mournfully, so quietly that Grif almost thought he wasn't meant to hear it. He turned to face Grif, an irritated scowl forming on his face. Now _that_ was the Church that Grif remembered.  “But, no. I'm stuck in here, trying to get your fat ass to do what you should've _been_ doing already.”

“Getting the hell away from you?” Grif supplied. “That sounds good.”

“Enough games. It's time for you to get back to work, Grif,” Church declared. His eyes squinted into a pointed glare, locking with Grif's unwaveringly. “I'm sure this little vacation has been fun, but you have a job to do. Stop being such a stubborn shit already.”

“Fuck off,” Grif snapped, not breaking his gaze.

“I'm being serious,” Church insisted. “You need to quit fucking around and go do some work for once.”

“Why? Why is it so goddamn important?” Grif bellowed suddenly, his rage radiating off of him. Church flinched slightly, but his expression didn't change, remaining in the same stoic mask, as if he'd expected it. “I don't know how many times I have to fucking say this, but _we weren't friends_. We were just a group of assholes stuck in the same canyon for however long, and for some reason, that makes everyone act like it's suddenly my job to do whatever they tell me to!”

“Grif–”

“No! I am so fucking _sick_ of hearing the same shit from you guys!” he screamed into Church's surprisingly impassive face. “We all hated each other! That's always how it's been, and with good fucking reason! Why should I have to risk everything to save some dickhead that barely knows anything about me? Why should I have to put my life on the line, _again_ , for someone who doesn't give a fuck about me? ” He turned away from Church roughly, the adrenaline wearing off. “It's not my fucking job, and it's got nothing to do with me. They'll be fine, and even if they aren't, it doesn't matter to me.”

There was a heavy pause, and Grif felt, distantly, his stomach churning nervously as the tense stillness continued. Maybe Grif didn't know as much about Church as he thought, but if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that Church had always been the type to yell first, ask questions later. To hear pure silence from the man after such a tirade was jarring in its own right. Finally, after a beat, Church sighed. “You're right.”

Grif turned sharply, shock winning out over his stubbornness. “What?”

“You're right, Grif,” Church repeated. “It's not your job. There's nothing keeping you from just leaving them all to die on this mission – which, by the way, they will. They don't stand a chance.”

Grif squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “So, what, you're saying there's something I can do about it?” Grif asked after a moment. He glared obstinately. “You're so full of it. They're probably going to be fine. And even if they aren't, nothing I can do would change that.”

“I think you know that's not true,” Church contested, “but, like you said, it doesn't matter, because you don't care what happens to them.” He narrowed his eyes at Grif. “Right?”

Grif faltered. “Well, you're just a part of my dream, anyway,” he protested, but uncertainty was clear in his voice. “You don't know any more about what's going on than I do.”

“Don't I?” Church inquired eerily, and his calculating, deliberate stare was way too unsettling.

“That's not the point,” Grif went on, choosing to ignore the odd look Church was giving him. “I _don't_ care about them. And why should I? It's not like they ever cared about me. All they did was bitch about me being lazy. They didn't need me then, and they don't need me now. So leave me the hell alone.”

Church sighed exasperatedly. “Grif, you guys can barely function as a complete group. Did you honestly think they'd be fine if you just ditched them to sit on this stupid rock and do nothing all day?” he questioned, sounding stupefied. When Grif didn't answer, he groaned in annoyance and continued, “I can't believe I need to tell you this after how long it's been. Listen, jackass. They _do_ need you. They need you to hold them together. Because they fucking care about you.”

“You're lying,” Grif said hesitantly.

“No, I'm not. Why else would they have been so mad at you for trying to leave them?” Church demanded. “You're important to them, Grif. They need you. They'll die without you. And you will too, because _you_ need _them_.”

Grif wavered, glancing away from Church's resolute stare. “I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about,” he said dubiously.

Church sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “That's cool. I figured you'd act like this,” he commented. “I can't believe I actually have to convince you of something you should've known _years_ ago, but I guess it's what I gotta do.”

Grif scoffed. “What, you gonna pull some ghost of Christmas past shit?”

Church looked Grif in the eye and smiled, a sinister, knowing smirk. “Something like that.”

Grif blinked, and then all in an instant, they were standing in front of Blue base, as if they had always been there. Grif stumbled to the ground, somehow weakened from the transition, and looked up wearily at Church, who was standing in front of the doorway, his arms folded impatiently. “How the fuck did we get here?” Grif gasped out.

“How should I know? It's your dream,” Church parroted, but his smug smirk said otherwise. “Come on. I got something to show you.” He grabbed Grif's arm and pulled him to his feet, motioning for him to follow as he ventured into Blue base.

Grif was at a loss for words, and not any closer to understanding what the fuck was happening in his increasingly out-of-control dream, but his natural instinct took over. He had followed Church blindly for years, chasing after him regardless of all other factors in his life – why stop now? Ignoring the roiling fear in his gut, he trailed after him, slowly, as they crossed over the threshold into Blue base.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's working title was "Church (Of All Fucking People) Teaches Grif the Meaning of Friendship," or "Grif Learns the Meaning of Friendship" for short. You know you're pretty far gone when Church is the one that has to explain to you that your friends are, in fact, your friends.
> 
> I forgot how much these two curse when they get together. Considering bumping the rating to Teen just because of all the language, but maybe not. We'll see.


	3. Reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am of the firm belief that, while Grif is mostly pretending to be an asshole for self-preservation purposes, Church is just like that. So when it comes down to a battle of wills, Grif doesn't stand a chance. Church is basically leading him by the nose at this point.
> 
> This chapter features a gratuitous amount of band namedropping. I apologize in advance. (At least they're not more bad sci-fi movies, though!)

Unease settled in the pit of Grif's stomach when he entered the front room of the Blues's headquarters, trailing closely behind Church. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was the “enemy” base; he hadn't cared about that at any point in their time there, or any point since. No, what disturbed him was the fact that he remembered what the base looked like at all. For all the times he visited Blue base to spend time with Kai, or to get drunk with Tucker, he'd rarely, if ever, actually set foot inside. All of his time had been spent outside or on the roof, the entrance to which was in the immediate doorway and therefore required no further journeying into the base proper.

Grif supposed he could chalk it up to his brain guesstimating what the inside would look like. If that was the case, it wasn't very imaginative at all. For starters, the base seemed to just be a reversed version of Red base, with the kitchen and recreational area on opposite walls. He could see it down the hall, as well – in Red base, all the bedrooms were on the left side of the hall, with only the CO's room and the bathroom to the right, but here, it seemed to be the opposite. There was a second hallway to the left, leading off to where Grif presumed their workshops and training rooms were; in Red base, this hallway was on the right. It was extremely disorienting, and just looked wrong. Could their joint army really not afford a consistent interior designer?

In spite of that, however, key details were jumping out at him, little things he knew he never would have noticed in the waking world. Turning his attention to the open room they were standing in, Grif saw that, somehow, Blue base was actually in worse shape than his own base had been. In contrast to the large wooden TV stand Donut had insisted the Reds use, the Blues had what appeared to be two defunct car tires stacked on top of one another as a makeshift perch for their small television, and the couch, while mostly intact, had one cushion with a dark brown stain that Grif did not wish to know the origins of.

On the kitchen side, Grif spotted a massive, blackened mark on the back wall which he could only assume had been due to a cooking accident. A note, taped over the scorched area and singed at the very edges, read “STAY OUT CABOOSE” in jagged black lettering, making it obvious who the culprit had been. A little smile curled his lips almost involuntarily; he could just imagine the craziness of that day, how simultaneously awful and hilarious it must have been to witness.

“It was. I was laughing the entire time while Tucker put the fire out with the couch cushion,” Church chimed in. “But we couldn't cook for a week after.”

“Stop doing that,” Grif objected. “It's so fucking creepy when you read my mind.”

“Imagine what it must've been like for me being literally plugged into people's heads,” Church deadpanned. “Every single one of you is fucking disgusting, dude.”

Grif snickered a little too hard at that. Though he was trying to hide it, Grif's nerves about what was happening were steadily increasing, and it was making him feel a jittery anxiety. “Okay, you've got me here,” he started. “So, now what? You just gonna yell at me some more, or are you actually gonna help me wake up?”

“I will, soon,” Church assured him. “But I have to show you something first.” Church led him down the hallway, stopping next to the first door they came across in the next part of the hall. “Go in.”

“Seriously? You can't open it yourself?” Grif questioned, somewhat teasingly. “You're really that lazy?”

“Just open the fucking door, Grif.”

Grif slowly pushed the door aside, stepping into the room gingerly. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting; an ambush, perhaps, when the dream would become a full on nightmare and he'd finally be able to wake himself up. Instead, he was greeted by a slightly messy, but still relatively plain room. The bed was unmade, comforter abandoned to the wayside and pillows in unusual positions, but the floor was clear and the desk only held a few loose papers. On top of them was a small, plain looking stereo, on, but not playing anything. On the wall, posters from several different musicians were spread haphazardly; whoever lived here really loved Green Day, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and, as evidenced by one excessively gargantuan poster, Metric. Grif turned to Church, lifting an eyebrow in inquiry.

“This is Tucker's room,” he explained. “Not sure why it looks like this, cause this is way cleaner than he ever had it. But it's definitely his.”

Grif gawked at Church, confusion plain on his face. “...Okay, so it's Tucker's room,” he said after a moment. “What's the point?”

Church nodded his head toward the desk. “The radio,” he stated vaguely.

“Dude, I am so over your cryptic bullshit,” Grif berated. “Can you at least use a verb so I know what to _do_ with the damn radio?”

Church grinned, looking entirely too self-satisfied. “Nope.”

Grif let out a heavy sigh as he approached the unassuming stereo, noting that it was clearly well-used, but still new enough to have a CD player built into it. The words “Track 006” scrolled across the screen, suggesting that there was a CD inside which had recently been played, but was paused in the middle of a song. Pressing the button to open the disc cover, he saw that there was indeed a CD already loaded in, but it was blank, with no image or text written to give away its contents. Grif closed the top and, after a nervous pause – because, knowing Tucker, there could be any manner of filth burned onto that CD – hit the play button.

There was a moment of silence as the old stereo, slowed from years of overuse, found the place where it had been paused and resumed. All at once, a familiar tune began ringing out, sounding more vivid than anything else in the dream had. Even though Grif couldn't immediately place the song, he found himself singing along reflexively, as if the song was something he knew by heart, something that had been with him his whole life. Then it hit him.

“Is this The Killers?” Grif asked incredulously. “This is one of my favorite songs by them... I didn't even know Tucker liked them.”

“He didn't used to,” Church hinted. “The CD was a gift.”

Grif hesitated, as a distant memory suddenly floated back to him, and the realization hit him swiftly. “Oh, my god, I gave him this,” he recalled in surprise. “He asked me for new music, so I burned him a CD. I didn't think he'd actually– you know. Listen to it.”

“He never _stopped_ listening to it,” Church corrected. “And, honestly, it was really fucking annoying. I know you like The Killers, but come on, man. Where's the variety?”

“I just figured he would toss it or something,” Grif went on, ignoring Church's comment. He rested a hand gently on the radio, feeling the beat of the music vaguely through his fingertips as he continued, “He really played it?”

“I just told you he did,” Church chastised. “Pay attention, dude.”

Grif fell silent as he considered the implications of this. He knew that he and Tucker had spent quite a lot of time together in Blood Gulch, with their regular drinking nights and their occasional daytime hangouts if it was a particularly slow day. But Grif had never considered that Tucker actually thought of him outside of those moments. It was a genuine shock to Grif to realize it; Tucker's request for Grif to make him a mixtape was not just lip service, or small talk made between associates. It was a real request.

Grif had only burned the CD on a whim, just out of boredom, and under the assumption that Tucker wasn't going to listen to it anyhow. But this song, paused in the middle, meant he _had_ listened. Even to the smallest degree, he had acknowledged Grif's work in putting it together. And, if Church was telling the truth, he hadn't just acknowledged it. He had loved it. He played it over and over again, appreciating the gift that Grif had given him, every single time.

Grif felt himself getting a little misty eyed, but he blinked it away quickly as he looked up at Church, who was gazing at him intensely, but not maliciously. “That's what you had to show me?” he said after a moment. “My old mix CD?”

Church grinned again, not quite malevolent, but certainly scheming. “You wish,” he mocked. “If I'm gonna be stuck in your sappy ass dream, then I'm gonna take it as far as I want.”

Grif blinked, and again found himself transported to another space, this time a different room. He again staggered to the floor, the shock of the fast movement dizzying him. “Dude, _stop_ fucking doing that,” he demanded.

“Stop being such a fat ass then,” Church mocked. “Seriously, who gets winded in a dream?”

Grif slowly pushed himself onto his feet, realizing with a distant surprise that he had just poked his hand on something sharp on the floor. As the wooziness faded, and he was able to see the room a bit more clearly, he realized with a start that he was seeing something that he had never seen before – a room messier than his own.

To be fair to Caboose, Grif's room would still probably win the award for being the most disgusting. He supposed Caboose's space was more comparable to Sarge's room than anything else; instead of clothes and food, Caboose's room was littered top to bottom with tools, loose scrap metal, and other mechanical pieces that Grif couldn't begin to conclude the usage of. Every surface in the room, even the bed, was covered in the miscellaneous pieces of metal, some of it piled on top of one another. The walls were empty, except for the many holes in it that Grif could only assume had been drilled in, and the desk seemed to have been added onto, leaving more space for Caboose's tinkering.

“And I thought my room was bad,” Grif remarked with a horrified awe. “He really lived like this?”

“It actually used to be worse,” Church divulged. “There's three regular bedrooms in our base, and we had to turn the second one into a workshop to get some of this shit out of here. It was hell.”

“Wait, so where did my sister stay when she–”

“Don't worry about it,” Church interrupted hastily. “Check under the bed.”

“This is the shittiest scavenger hunt, Church. I just want you to know that,” Grif grumbled as he got on his knees and lifted up the overhanging comforter.

Rummaging around underneath Caboose's old bed, he noticed that the space was, somehow, also full to the brim with assorted pieces and bits that Grif didn't understand. Where was Caboose getting all of these parts? This was just unreasonable. Grif pushed them aside as best he could, looking for whatever Church had been referring to, when something caught his eye. Although all the other objects were relatively small, this item was much larger, oddly shaped, and covered by a piece of white paper that masked its front. It was too dark under the bed to make out exactly what it was. He reached out and, finding that it was too far for him to grab, used the tip of his finger to knock it toward himself. The odd, halting roll it made in his direction told of an object that wasn't quite spherical, but was somewhere near it, and as Grif withdrew it completely and rose to his feet, allowing the paper to fall to the floor, he quickly understood why.

“It's... my helmet," he whispered after a moment.

Grif knew that both teams had the same make of armor and there were no differences between them, so it technically could have been anyone's, but there was no debating that with this particular helmet. It was orange, his shade of orange, and had a telltale scuff on the visor that he had gotten when Tucker had nearly crushed him to death with the tank. He'd worn a great deal of armor since then, but this helmet was part of his very first suit. Glancing at the inside, he saw what looked to be caked on food remnants and darkened spots from where his, ahem, _cigarette_ smoke had discolored the inside. It was his, alright.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grif noticed the forgotten paper and stooped down to pick it up. Although one side was blank, on the other was a crudely drawn doodle, made exclusively with blue and orange crayon, that showed himself and Caboose high fiving. Above their heads in uneven, childish print, were the words, “Dear Griff: Sorry Tucker tried to kill you before. I hope this will help. Love, Caboose.” Under their feet, in a hastily written addition, it read, “PS: Don't tell Church.”

“He made me a new one, didn't he?” Grif realized. “I remember this one day where my helmet looked brand new, but I just figured Simmons fixed the visor for me or something. He made me a whole new helmet, from scratch?”

Church nodded in confirmation. “I caught him sneaking it out to you one night,” he explained. “He just walked in while you were asleep and switched it out, but I guess he forgot the note. You guys really suck at the whole 'soldering' thing, huh?”

“Where did he get the parts?”

“Fuck if I know. He just produces shit out of nowhere,” he asserted, shrugging. “I stopped asking a long time ago.”

Grif cleared out a space on Caboose's bed and sank down onto it, staring distantly at the helmet in his hands. It was almost othering, to see the helmet that used to essentially be his own face gazing back at him, cracked and broken. He ran over the sides with his fingertips, feeling, vaguely, the dents and ridges from damages it had suffered over the years. His throat began to burn with oncoming tears, and he shut his eyes hard to fight them back. Church stood in front of him, silent.

“You're making this up,” Grif mumbled, more to himself than Church. “There's no way any of this is real. You just want to pretend like someone cares about you, you fucking idiot. This is all bullshit and you know it.”

“Are you serious?” Church interjected, sounding genuinely perplexed. “I showed you all that, and you _still_ don't believe me? How fucking deep does the self-loathing _go_ , dude?”

“Shut up, Church,” Grif growled, pressing his face against the helmet. He didn't even have it in himself to yell anymore. “I'm sick of this fucking dream, and I'm sick of _you_. Just go away already, and leave me the fuck alone.”

A hush fell over the room, and Grif sat there, his head still resting heavily against the helmet, waiting for another one of Church's snide remarks. But none came. He lifted his head up, slowly, and was only mildly surprised to find that Church had disappeared. He supposed that, if the dream was finally going to fall under his control, it would be at a moment where he was compelling someone else to abandon him. It wasn't much different than real life.

Grif knocked as much of Caboose's trinkets off the plain bed as he could and laid down, sighing to himself once more. At least, if he was going to end this terrible dream, he should take a second to do something he enjoyed. He would've preferred lying out in his own filthy bed, but he wasn't in any state to make the long trek over to Red base. Knowing the persistent terribleness of this dream, it'd probably become some horror scene where the base got further and further away the more he walked. Not something he wanted to risk. Curling up into a ball, he wrapped his arms around himself, and started to drift off, feeling that strange dizziness intensify as he willed himself to let go, not think about the implications of everything that was happening to him, and just sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I keep forcing my shit taste onto these characters. But I really do think Grif would never shut the fuck up about The Killers. And Tucker just likes anything as long as there's some guitar and bass in it. (I had no particular song in mind for the track the CD player was stuck on, but track six on their debut album is "Andy, You're a Star." Just in case you're curious.)
> 
> Grif got a little angsty at the end, I know, but that self-loathing had to catch up eventually. Can't run from your feelings forever!


	4. Equivalent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gone a little overboard with Church's love for his friends in this fic, but I can't help it. He just cares about them so much, no matter how awful they are. He would literally die for them. And has. Twice.

Admittedly, Grif didn't know what would happen to him if he fell asleep in the dream. He'd seen plenty of movies where sleeping in a dream meant death, but that seemed outlandish. You're already asleep; how exactly would it kill you? He figured it'd be more like... double sleep. The best sleep ever. Of all time.

But in spite of that, he didn't feel any more tired than before. Instead, he was getting more dizzy, like the night at Blue base where he'd had a little too much vodka and got the spins. Perhaps it was a sign that he shouldn't go to sleep after all. He opened one eye slowly to see if anything was different, when all at once, the entire room blinked out of his view and shifted drastically, mutating into a darkened, much emptier room. The space where Caboose's bed had been was now completely vacant, causing Grif to collapse hard onto the ground. He groaned out, rolling onto his back and gazing up at the ceiling, where Church stood hovering over him, grinning smugly.

“You seriously thought sleeping it off would work?” he asked, sounding amused.

“I was  _hoping_  it would,” Grif grumbled, staring up at him in annoyance as the world began to set itself straight, “but that's what I get for having expectations.”

“You'd think you would've learned your lesson about hoping for things by now,” Church admonished. “Anyway, you're not getting rid of me that easy. I'm in this for keeps, buddy.” He extended a hand to Grif, who slapped at it in indignation first. Church narrowed his eyes in vexation, causing Grif to roll his own, before finally accepting the offered hand and rising to his feet, taking a look around at his new surroundings.

Something was a little different about this room. Unlike the others, which were clearly long abandoned, this one felt more... personal. Like it had been recently lived in. On top of that, its level of disarray and general awfulness was a dead giveaway that it could only belong to Church, Blue base's resident slob. The space rivaled his own in terms of being absolutely disgusting, even considering that it was the CO's bedroom and thus was almost twice the size of Grif's standard-grade bedroom. Scattered around the room were several overflowing trash bins, visibly dirty clothes, and candy wrappers poorly disposed of, as if he had just thrown them on the floor once they were empty (which, knowing Church, wasn't unlikely). And jelly beans. Bags and bags of black licorice jelly beans, in all sorts of places. Man, this guy really liked his jelly beans. Who could possibly eat that many jelly beans in one sitting? Even Grif was getting a little grossed out by it.

At least the walls were properly decorated. Grif never realized just how many music fans were in their group, mainly because the only person he had regular contact with, Simmons, had very little interest in it. Church, in stark contrast, had plastered several different posters for classic rock bands all over the walls; there were a handful of Led Zeppelin posters, as well as a few of Guns N' Roses and The Eagles covering the space, and as Grif spotted a few more posters rolled up in the corner, he knew that there would've been even more if Church could have fit them. It made sense, given what he knew about the man – he didn't seem the type to dabble in anything but the classics, electric guitar and powerful drums and just the hint of a bass-line. He kind of respected it.

On the floor next to the extra wall hangings were the discarded pieces of Church's first suit of armor, likely left behind when he was relocated from Blood Gulch. Grif was a little surprised to see it there; they had all been given new suits of armor when they were transferred out of the canyon, and Church was wearing the new armor model at present. As far as he could tell, though, everyone else had taken their old suits with them, or turned them over to the higher-ups upon receiving the newer version. Consequently, none of the other rooms they'd visited had any old armor in them, save for Grif's broken helmet. Why was Church's here?

“So, what, is this the part where you tell me how important I am and whatever other bullshit?” he prompted, kicking at a bag of candy on the floor.

“You fucking wish,” Church retorted, rummaging through some drawers. “No, that would just be bullshit flattery. And it wouldn't work anyway.” Seemingly not finding what he was looking for, he knelt onto the floor and began picking up pieces of the armor, scrutinizing them one by one. “I have something else in mind.”

Grif watched silently as Church dug through each separated part of the suit, tossing aside parts where his search had been fruitless. He was clearly looking for something in particular, but whatever could be hidden inside those bits of armor, he certainly couldn't guess.

“So, for some reason, you refuse to believe that anyone cares about you,” Church started, still searching, “and all that other stuff still didn't convince you. You're one stubborn son of a bitch, Grif.”

“How sweet of you,” Grif said flatly.

“I know,” Church replied, and though Grif couldn't see his face, he could tell he was grinning. “But, because you're such a hard-headed dick, I had to go away for a bit to figure out what to do with you." 

"And here I thought you were just fucking with me."

“Oh, it was that too,” Church admitted without shame. “You make it too easy.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Anyway, after all that, I think I finally found the one thing that could get through your thick fucking skull,” Church declared. He halted his movements suddenly, and withdrew something small and rectangular from the sleeve of one of the suit's gloves. He turned to face Grif, though he was still gazing down at the object, obscuring it somewhat with his hands. “I've had this for a while. I always meant to give it back to you, but I never got the chance. I guess now's as good at time as any.” He held out his hand, offering it to Grif. “Here.”

Grif took the thing from Church's hands, staring at it absently for a moment until realization hit him, and like a gunshot, memories began flooding his mind. It was a picture of a beach at twilight, sapphire blue water glistening with the burn of the setting sun skating across its surface. The sky was magenta, fading into a deep periwinkle, but with the smallest hint of golden yellow still peeking out of the horizon. On the sandy beach, covered in shadows from the rapidly falling dark, was a young girl, with long curly hair and an infectious grin. She was posing goofily next to the ocean, as if she was presenting it to the viewer.

The photograph had definitely seen better days. It was much more tattered than he recalled, with clipped off edges that suggested an accidental nick here or there, and a bit of wear-and-tear on the image itself, possibly from frequent friction. But it really didn't matter at all. It was more whole than he had ever expected to see again, and it was in his hands, dream or no, and seeing the carefree smile of his little sister against the gentle waves of the beach by his home comforted him in a way it never had before. Grif may have successfully contained himself in earlier segments of the dream, but there was no stopping it this time. A quiet sob escaped him as tears began to track down his cheeks, which he rubbed at in a vain attempt to keep them at bay.

“How did you get this?” he managed after a moment, relief and sorrow seeping into his voice simultaneously. “I lost this so long ago... how'd you–?”

“You gave it to me,” Church interrupted, gently. “When we got locked up.”

Grif had forgotten about that short time; compared to what his recent exploits had been like, his brief jail sentence with Church was nothing but a faded memory at the back of his mind. But it had happened. During their imprisonment, Grif and Church had begun to bond, sharing stories from their respective bases and mementos from home. Grif, opening himself up in a way he never did, handed Church the only picture he had from home, the one he always kept on his person to remind himself of the only true family he'd ever had; his sister, the sun, and the ocean.

And then their emotional talk had been interrupted by a particularly rude visit from the freelancer Wyoming, and the picture was forgotten, as more pressing issues came to the forefront. Grif hadn't even put two and two together when all was said and done, and just assumed he'd misplaced it in the ensuing chaos. He would never admit to anyone the deep depression he'd fallen into when he realized that it was gone for good.

“Every time I tried to get it back to you, something got in the way,” Church went on, “and then we all got separated. I never got to return it. But I kept it as safe as I could all these years.”

Grif couldn't tear himself away from the photo. Part of him understood that it wasn't real, that nothing happening in the dream was, but that didn't mean anything. In that moment, it was as real as it could have ever been again. He took a moment to compose himself, willing the burn in his throat to subside as he tearfully locked eyes with Church, who, for the first time that Grif had ever seen, looked to be completely devoid of judgment or mockery.

Finally, he spoke, his voice still shaky and thin from crying. “Why did you save it?”

Church's expression, that permanent stare of irritation, melted. He wasn't smiling, but his face became softer, more accessible. “Why do you think?” he asked quietly.

As the words floated into the air, Grif found himself completely overwhelmed by the meaning behind them. The tone in Church's voice was so deeply affectionate that Grif almost didn't recognize the emotion that he was conveying in it. It wasn't a question. It was an admission.

Grif was silent, body trembling hard as he pressed the picture to his chest protectively. He was notoriously horrible at dealing with emotions, both everyone else's and his own, but all at once, he realized that he didn't give a fuck about that anymore. Being the emotionally bereft snarkster felt ludicrous when he'd been made to see so much evidence of the many ways the others cared about him. It was so thoughtful, so profoundly what he'd needed, that Grif realized the depth of the love he had been receiving from his friends all along and how much his apathy had made him miss. It was cheesy, absolutely, but that didn't matter. Only one thing mattered to him now, the one goal he had in his mind. He needed to be with them.

Without even thinking about it, he pulled Church into a tight hug, feeling a small shock run through him at the vague warmth that emanated from his body. It wasn't like real, human warmth; it felt simulated, like a recreation of what the sensation might have felt like by someone who had never experienced it. It only served to remind Grif that this was, at the end of the day, still just a dream. But when Church hugged him back, hesitantly at first, but eventually with a strong, crushing grip, it didn't even matter anymore. Fake dream Church or not, the fondness radiating off of him was real. As real as Grif could get, anyway.

“I have to go back,” Grif mumbled into Church's shoulder, as if he'd just been struck with the revelation. “They'll die without me.”

“I know,” Church affirmed, but there was a strange, resigned tone in his voice. He removed himself from Grif and took a small step back. He gave a lopsided grin, probably trying to dispel the serious air. “Took you long enough, dipshit.”

“Shut the hell up,” Grif shot back, but he was laughing as he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes. Taking one last look at the picture in his hands before it was gone forever, he tucked it into the storage compartment of his suit, hidden in the metal of his thigh-plate. At least their annoyingly bulky suits were good for something.

Church's smile waned a bit, and a despairing expression came over him. “Grif, listen to me,” he implored. “Before you go, I just need you to do me a favor.”

“What is it?”

For a moment, Grif thought he saw the beginnings of tears welling up in Church's eyes as he drifted closer. “I need you to tell the others... tell them that I miss them.” Gently, he brought a hand up to the back of Grif's neck, thumb pressing lightly over the spot where Grif's implant scar was. He frowned, averting his gaze. “And tell them that I'm sorry.”

Grif shot up from his place on the ground, a jolting sensation like an electric current forcing him awake with a gasp. As he slowly began to come back to himself, a dizziness unlike any other overtaking his mind, he started to piece things together. His fingers dug into the dirt under his hand, and it was warm, damp, and left a residue on his skin. The sun was just barely rising, little peeks of rosy pink giving way to turquoise, and there were some errant tears still running down his cheeks, leaving cold, wet trails in their wake. He gave himself a quick slap in the face to ensure he wasn't still dreaming. Nope, that hurt. Really badly. He shouldn't have slapped himself that hard.

Rubbing his sore face, he rose to his feet and looked around. Part of him had hoped that he'd perhaps hallucinated the entire events of the last few days, but no. Everyone was gone, and it was still just him, alone. He tousled his curly hair roughly, letting out a loud groan of frustration.

He still remembered his dream. Vividly. More accurately than he'd ever recalled any dream. He remembered the gifts Church had shown him, the picture he had given him. The ways that his friends loved him. He realized now how much he needed to be around them, how inextricably connected to all of them he was. But it was his stupid bullshit that made them abandon him in the first place. No, that wasn't right. _He'd_ abandoned _them_. Even though they'd pleaded with him, in their own, admittedly terrible ways, to stay and fight with them. He had done wrong by them. Now, it was time to make it right.

Grif's gaze fell on the stack of volleyballs by his camp, the only survivors of the base fires. He was going to make it right. But first, he needed a little practice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that, in canon, there's no reason the Reds and Blues would have AI implants like the Freelancers did. But the truth is, I do not care. 
> 
> There's also no reason for all the black licorice jelly beans. I just think Church would really like them. He's a man of poor taste, and that's what we love about him.
> 
> Last chapter coming soon!


	5. Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is exactly why I need to start writing fics out completely before I post them. Sorry for the almost two-month-long delay; school got in the way as usual, but more than that, I really could not decide how I wanted to leave things off with these guys. Still, I think this is a pretty fair way to do it. I hope you guys enjoy!

When Locus, mercifully, appeared out of the ether to tell him that his friends were in danger, Grif felt like it had been years since he'd had that dream, longer still that he'd been alone. In reality, it had probably been a few weeks at most, but the separation had clearly taken a toll on him, if Locus's horrified reaction to seeing him was anything to go by. Grif was more than grateful when they finally vacated the barren moonbase that had become his prison. Sure, it was a self-made prison, but still. The rescue from his literal personal hell was definitely welcome.

Besides, he was actually glad to not be lazing around and doing nothing for once. He'd had more than enough of that on Iris. With Locus's arrival, Grif felt like he had stumbled on a real purpose. One that would ensure the safety of his friends.

He was going to be bait.

And, judging by how quickly the Blues and Reds scooped him up, he must have been pretty damn good at it.

Still, his friends must not have seen it the same way, because the air in their small prison was impossibly tense. Even though he'd tried to get out his rehearsed apology before Temple had so rudely interrupted him, he hadn't been able to say all that he'd wanted to. But, if he was being honest, it probably wouldn't have made much difference regardless. Temple revealing that Church had never sent that distress signal, that he was still dead and never coming back, was certainly the thing at the forefront of everyone's minds. 

Not that Grif was getting off any easier because of it. Even though everyone was deathly silent, he could feel that their attentions were all on him, and not in a good way. Tucker wouldn't stop glaring at him, Caboose seemed a little confused on how to feel and so was just mimicking Tucker, Donut was staring at Grif pointedly while angrily filing his nails, and Simmons...

Grif couldn't really bring himself to look over at Simmons, to be perfectly candid. He could see from his peripherals that Simmons was staring, hadn't _stopped_ staring since he'd entered the room. He could feel the conflicting emotions absolutely radiating off of him, relief and anger and sorrow and happiness all culminating into one emotional time bomb that needed to be defused sooner than later. And, unfortunately, it was not the time to deal with it. Not yet.

“I still can't fucking believe you,” Tucker bit out for the hundredth time, calling Grif's attention. He was sitting on the ground now, slouching uncomfortably.

“Tucker, I already told you,” Grif started, his voice a hush. “Locus is here, and he's going t–”

“I'm not talking about that!” Tucker shouted. He hesitated, glancing at the door to ensure that none of the guards came in to investigate, before he continued, “It's not about the fucking plan, Grif. You just left us. You're such a selfish dick that you would rather sit around on your ass all day while we do all the hard work, trying to help Church. You didn't even pretend like you cared about him.” He glanced away, anger and hurt clear on his face. “You didn't even pretend like you cared about _us_.”

Grif inhaled deeply. Here came his least favorite part – having feelings. It served him right, though. Exhaling slowly, he finally said, “You're right.”

Everyone looked up at him in shock, and Grif couldn't really blame them – admitting to being in the wrong about _anything_ was a true rarity for him, and the fact that he was giving them the time of day at all must have been a shock in itself. “It was really fucking stupid of me,” he continued. “I don't know why I thought that staying on that fucking planet was the right thing to do. I was just...” He paused, sighing. “I was so happy that we were finally getting to take a break. After all these years of fighting for shit that had nothing to do with us, it was all over. We just got to be... us.” He shook his head. “I don't know. That's really not a good excuse, but it's true.”

“You're fucking right it's not a good excuse,” Tucker hissed. “Even when we thought Church was really still alive, you just turned your back on us without even thinking about it.” He curled his fingers into a fist. “You were ready to just let Church die, _again_.”

Caboose let out a quiet whimper, Temple's words still fresh in his mind, and Tucker put a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder. He shot another angry glare at Grif as he snapped, “I don't even know why the fuck you came here. What, did you get lonely and decide we were better than nothing? We don't deserve that bullshit.” He turned back to face Caboose, pulling him closer in a half-hug. “We've been through enough.”

Grif nodded, silent. He knew Tucker was right, at least partially. He couldn't just expect them to welcome him back with open arms, not after the stupid shit he'd put them through. But in spite of that, he needed them all to know that it wasn't like that. Whether they hated him or screamed in his face or whatever, it didn't matter. They had to know the truth.

“I had a dream, a few weeks ago,” he began.

As if on cue, everyone's expressions hardened, confusion and annoyance plain in their faces. Grif could tell that they didn't care about some dream, and probably just wanted to punch him in the throat, but he continued regardless. “I was back in Blood Gulch. I got to see the old bases. And Church was there.”

Caboose and Tucker looked up at that, Caboose looking sad yet hopeful, and Tucker still glaring pointedly. “He... he was?” Caboose asked tentatively.

Grif smiled sorrowfully. “Yeah. He was. He showed me everything I was too stupid to realize before.”

“...Like what?” Simmons quietly inquired, catching Grif off-guard. That was the first he'd spoken since Grif had gotten thrown into his cell.

Grif took a deep breath, hand gripping the bars between his and Simmons's cells. Even with all the sappy things that had happened in that dream, and that were happening now, sharing his feelings was never going to come easy to him. He had only been able to practice his apologies so much with the volleyball gang, and their feedback was minimal at best. Still, it was worth a try.

“I always thought you guys didn't give a fuck about me,” Grif admitted. “I mean, we didn't start out as best friends or anything. We really didn't like each other, and even with all that's happened over the years, I just assumed that's how it still was.” He hesitated. “For me, anyway. I never once thought you guys would've cared if I was gone. But you always went to save Church, every time. He was the one you guys really cared about. Not me.”

Tucker glanced aside, and though his expression stayed mostly neutral, the way he bit at the inside of his lip betrayed the guilt he must have been feeling.

“But in the dream, Church showed me all the stuff we shared with each other,” Grif went on. “Some things I even forgot about.” He looked up at Simmons, a small grin tentatively making its way onto his face. “Remember that _Fifth Element_ poster from Blood Gulch?”

Simmons smiled despite himself, a little chuckle forcing its way from his lips. “You mean the one where you made Bruce Wills a furry?” he clarified. “I _wish_ I could forget about that shit.”

“And, Donut, remember the poster I gave you from Voyager?” Grif continued, turning to face Donut, whose arms were still crossed. “From that time we got drunk and kept talking about Seven of Nine's boobs?”

Donut hesitated, looking conflicted as he decided how to respond. “I still have it, actually,” he admitted sheepishly. “I saved it from when we all got transferred out.”

Grif smiled gently. “I know.”

“Okay, so you had some bullshit dream about stuff from Blood Gulch,” Tucker cut in, tone still bitter. “What's the point?”

“He took me to Blue base, too,” Grif pressed on. “To your rooms.” He looked fondly at Tucker. “You know, I forgot how much we used to hang out back then. All the times we spent all night getting drunk together.”

Tucker looked away stoically, refusing to budge. “So what?”

“I got to see all the stuff you guys kept from me,” Grif said. “Even shit that I thought didn't matter. Remember the mix CD I gave you?”

Tucker huffed. “What about it?”

“Church told me how much you listened to it,” he explained. “I'm sure some of it was just made up dream stuff, like the CD being stuck on the sixth track, but–”

“Track six?” Tucker interjected, surprised. “That– well, it really was my favorite track on that CD.” He averted his gaze once more, looking embarrassed. “I listened to it all the time. Church always complained about it.”

Grif laughed affectionately as memories of Church's whining in the dream came back to him. “Yeah, he said that too,” he concurred. “And seeing all of that just made me realize, all the time I was thinking you guys didn't give a fuck about me, you were doing things for me. And you kept the gifts I gave you. Even if we weren't best friends back then, you already cared about me.” A small, wry grin coming over his face, he added, “So I can't imagine how much you losers must love me now.”

Simmons scoffed. “Don't push your luck, stupid,” he broke in. His arms were folded indignantly, but the light flush on his cheeks told a different story.

Grif smiled affectionately at Simmons, just for a moment, before his smile fell as he remembered the end of his dream. “I know it was just my subconscious, or whatever, but he seemed really worried about you guys. All he cared about was getting all of us together again,” Grif confessed. “He kept saying we had to be together, that we'd die without each other.” He paused, looking up at the group gravely. “And he wanted me to give you all a message.”

Caboose's eyes lit up, a dim glow, but still present. “What message?” he asked in a hush.

Grif slumped to the ground, eyes fixated on the concrete floor. He let out a heaving sigh. “He wanted me to say that he's sorry,” he echoed. “And that he misses all of you.”

There was a heavy pause, as everyone seemed to mull over Grif's words. He didn't know how one was meant to handle this sort of world-altering dream, but even if it was just in his head, it felt almost insulting to not tell the others the truth. Even with all the petty scrabbles they'd gotten into over the years, he knew that their group dynamic, though always somewhat distant and often contested, was the most important thing to them. And over time, something in them had shifted. They'd moved far beyond friendship by that point. They didn't need to like each other, because more than anything else, they loved each other. They were family. Even Church, the most cantankerous, bad-tempered curmudgeon in their group, had loved them. And if the rapidly spreading virus of teary eyes was anything to go by, they had loved him too.

After a pause, Tucker let out a small chuckle. “That's a pretty fucking wild dream, Grif,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood as he wiped at a stray teardrop.

“Dude, you have no fucking idea,” Grif agreed, grateful for the less serious topic switch. “Seeing your rooms was crazy. I mean, I know it was just my dream, but dream-you needs to tone down on the decorations. Where do you even get a Metric poster that big?”

Tucker paused, looking up at Grif curiously. “What?”

“Oh, in the dream you had a giant poster of that band, Metric,” Grif explained. “It was against the back wall, so it was the first thing you saw. Really fucking huge, too. I mean, I know you said chick singers are cool and all, but I'm pretty sure you weren't _that_ into them–”

“Grif,” Tucker interrupted, looking completely confounded. “I _do_ have a big Metric poster.”

Grif stopped, staring blankly. “What?”

“Yeah, dude. I brought it from home. And it _was_ against the back wall in Blood Gulch,” he said, his brow furrowing deeper.

Grif matched his expression. “And you had posters for, like, Green Day? And RHCP?”

“Dude, that's fucking creepy,” Tucker retorted. “How the hell did you know all that? You never went into my old room.”

“Maybe I just remembered you talking about it or something?” Grif supplied, but there was obvious uncertainty in his voice. “I mean, I doubt anything else was right. Like, there's no way Caboose really had my old helmet in his room.”

“Oh, I did,” Caboose interjected. “I took it so I could switch it with the new one.”

Tucker was staring at Grif in abject horror now, but Grif couldn't tear his eyes away from Caboose. “And... you wrote me a note?”

“Yes. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I forgot to bring it,” he confirmed. “But I never told anyone, not even Church, because I did not want to get in trouble.” Caboose tilted his head slightly in confusion. “How did you know?”

Everyone was staring at Grif again, this time in utter confusion. Grif's body was shaking, hand on his face as he struggled to get his bearings. After a moment, he breathed out, “It... it was in my dream. Church showed it to me.”

Grif could feel everyone's gazes more pointedly, waiting for some explanation, but he had none to offer them. His mind was racing to the point of almost being blank, and acting on autopilot, his hand drifted over to the storage compartment in the leg-piece of his armor. His body was moving almost mechanically as he opened it up and reached inside with a shaky hand, fingers brushing against something small and rectangular. He withdrew it, holding it up to the light cautiously, and he didn't even need to look at it to know exactly what it was. 

Grif froze, staring absently at the photograph between his fingers, before something broke in him. Tears – relieved, overjoyed tears – pricked at his eyes as he gazed at his sister's smiling face, her energetic happiness infecting him as it always had. An incredulous laugh burst forth from him as the tears ran down his cheeks, and his trembling fingers moved over the tattered image tenderly, seeing, but hardly believing. That son of a bitch.

“Grif?" Simmons' voice cut in, breaking his focus. "What's wrong?”

Grif shook his head, pocketing the photo once more and letting out a final, sniffling laugh. "Nothing,” he said after a moment. “Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about trying to come up with some justification for how things ended up as they did. But Grif wouldn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so I shouldn't either. I hope that works for you guys, too! 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading my little story, and I hope you enjoyed it!


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